


like I try, like I’m trying too hard

by HaleHole (SweetFanfics)



Series: Teen Wolf - Office Verse [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Office, Apologies, Gen, M/M, Romance, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 19:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetFanfics/pseuds/HaleHole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Office AU in which Derek and Stiles work in the same office. </p><p>After Derek has found out about <a href="http://dylanships.tumblr.com/post/63593204023/teen-wolf-au-office-verse-in-which-derek-and">the bet Lydia and Stiles made</a> after Derek first started working in the office, he refuses to talk to Stiles. It’s a good thing he has Erica to threaten him into fixing the mess he made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like I try, like I’m trying too hard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rena/gifts).



> Takes up right after [this photoset](http://dylanships.tumblr.com/post/63938414349/) where Erica tells Stiles to man up and go apologize to Derek for being a grade A asshole

It’s the soft, almost worried look that Erica gives him before she walks away that leaves Stiles feeling confused. Like the conversation they’d had wasn’t puzzling enough but that look.  _'Is she… rooting for me? That was her being all supportive, right?'_  
  


He watches the way she drums her fingers against her short skirt, waiting for the elevator doors to open and goes over their conversation. The lady wants him to suck it up and apologize to Derek. Which, had actually been part of his plan anyways, to be clear. Stiles is just… waiting for the right moment. He believes in giving people some (read: a lot) of space before (attempting) an apology.  
  


Stiles has been giving Derek space for 10 working days now. By which he means that Stiles has avoided going up to the Finance Department, begging and pawning off any errands relating to there off to Greenburg. This strategy also includes coming in earlier than before to avoid meeting Derek in the morning, leaving later than usual to avoid meeting Derek then and having his lunch at his desk to avoid any accidental cafeteria meetings.  
  


Basically, there’s been a lot of avoidance going on. And considering how he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Derek on his floor, the street is probably running both ways. And now he’s been told by Officer Reyes that it’s high time this street be closed and traffic redirected to…  
  


Wait, that metaphor is getting confusing now.  
  


Leaning back on his seat, Stiles drags the squeak out, because he can and because it pisses off Cathy in the cubicle next to him. He can already sense the angry glare being shot his way. it’s soothing in it’s normalcy.  
  


Rocking back and forth, Stiles wonders what he can do to start and correct the situation with Derek. Or at least bring it back to the status quo.   
  


_'That's simple. Find him, explain the back story, tell him how you feel and apologize. Maybe not necessarily in that order but that should work.'_ Stiles makes a face at the second point and decides that if he can keep his feelings out of it then it might be better.  
  


Ugh. He groans and tips his head back, staring upside down at Greenburg looking for something on his desk. Whendid he have to go and develop  _feelings_ for Derek? And why hadn’t he realized it?   
  


Hindsight being 20-20 and all, helps him realized that he started caring about the time he willingly spent the night fixing Derek’s mistake, not expecting anything out of it. Stiles had done it just because he’d thought it’d be a nice thing to do for the guy - not because it would help him get closer to Derek.  
  


That had been the tipping point after which Stiles’ motives had shifted. To be accurate, it was when Derek had thanked him and gotten him a ‘thank you’ coffee that Stiles had started getting that twitter-flutter-ache in his heart.  
  


Sighing gustily, Stiles pulls his glasses up over his beanie and scrubs his hands over his face. God  this would be a lot easier if he just didn’t feel half the things he felt now for Derek. Because his paranoia was going into over time.   
  


_'What if he doesn't listen? What if he's still pissed at me? If he hasn't come down in 2 weeks doesn't that mean that he's really mad at me? I know I'd be seriously mad if someone pulled that shit on me. Oh God what would I even say? Would he listen? Or would he just walk away without listening? Crap I hope he didn't complain about this to HR.'_  
  


With an irritated, loud  _noise_ Stiles straightens up in his seat and glares resentfully at his monitor. “I don’t want to do this.” He whines aloud.   
  


Cathy reaches out to smack him on the head with a file. “Quit whining and start working.”  
  


If that isn’t a sign from the universe then Stiles doesn’t know what is. “Alright, alright.” He sighs and drags himself a couple of inches forward, answering the universe and Cathy at the same time. “I’ll do it.”  
  


As he opens Outlook to check for any new replies or emails, Stiles glances at the clock. It’s another two hours to lunch break. He’ll try his luck then.

\--

"Well?" Scott asks the minute he lays eyes on Stiles. But the hopeful look twists into sympathy in a blink. "He didn’t show up huh?"  
  


Stiles shakes his head mournfully. “It was a shot in the dark you know? Derek doesn’t eat that often in the cafeteria.”  
  


He sits down at the corner of Scott’s desk, fiddling with the various items there before he picks up a pen. Stiles twirls it around his fingers, wishing that there was some way he could reach into himself and pull out this heavy feeling that seems determined to work its way down to his bones.   
  


Scott’s shaking his head, frowning heavily at his best friend. “He used to go down almost every day to eat with you!”  
  


"But that  _was_ before.” Stiles gives Scott a meaningful look before he gives the pen a way too enthusiastic spin and sends it flying over into a potted plant. “Shit. Sorry.”  
  


With a casual wave towards the plant, Scott replies, “I’ll get it later. Or get a new one from Ben. But hey, if you couldn’t catch him in the cafeteria, there’s always trying to catch him in the morning or after work right?”  
  


Scott’s optimistic approach towards life is something Stiles wishes he had. His can do spirit has gotten them through a lot of tough times. And right now it’s just the thing that Stiles needs to hear to raise his flagging spirits. “I’ll try catching him when I’m leaving.” He gives his friend a firm nod to seal the deal.  
  


—

Prior experience and Derek’s own admission are the reasons why Stiles stays behind an extra 40 minutes once their work day is over. The five minutes on top of that were Stiles’ nerves pitching an epic fit that make him want to run all the way down (from his 10th floor office).   
  


The nervous anticipation grows worse when he pushes the elevator button, his lunch rising up his throat at the thought of having to stand in the same space with Derek and try to find a way fix this mess between them.  
  


It feels extremely anti-climatic when the doors open and there’s no Derek there. Just a bored looking suit who glances at Stiles, sneers at his Converse sneakers and goes back to staring down at his phone.  _'Fuck you too.'_ Stiles snarks to himself.  
  


Once on the ground floor, Stiles runs out first. He hopes that Derek’s not come down yet and gone home already at the same time. Although the chances of the second happening are  _slim_. Derek  _hates_ the home time rush. Stiles remembers Derek’s exact words on the subject even and how he’d claimed that he’d rather  _’_ spend a week in a cage full of sharks with a bleeding leg than leave at 6’.  
  


While Stiles checks around the lobby, just in case Derek’s hiding somewhere, the elevator dings again to signal someone arriving. His head pops up from behind the sofa, hoping and not hoping at the same time.  
  


Isaac steps through, a distracted smile on his face as he ambles out. It takes him less than a second to catch Stiles’ eye and lose his smile. “Do I want to know what you’re doing?”   
  


His question makes Stiles pause for a second. He steps around from behind the sofa with a cough. “Not really. Hey, is Derek still up?” Stiles tries to sound more causal than hopeful but the way Isaac looks at him, almost pitifully, tells Stiles that he’s failed on that front.  
  


With a sad frown, Isaac shakes his head. “No. He left on time.”  
  


"What?"  
  


Stiles stares at the curly haired man, unable to believe his ears. “Yeah.” Isaac answers, “He’s been leaving the office on time for the past… months? Maybe more. Hasn’t been working any over time.”  
  


There’s a piercing feel, all over his lungs. It’s like being stabbed with a thousand sharp toothpicks or glass shards. Anything tiny and sharp enough to cause pinpricks of pain that make his whole chest ache. “Mind telling me what that’s about?” Isaac asks in a neutral voice.  
  


Stiles can’t bring himself to answer.  
  


—

He’s borderline late the next morning, not wanting to miss his chance at meeting Derek. Stiles runs all the way from his apartment to the subway, panting and wheezing as he makes it just in time.  
  


And on the entire way to the office, he keeps glancing at his wrist watch and wondering the odds of Derek having changed his morning routine. If the man has gone far enough to leave work on time, at a time he  _hates_ , to avoid meeting Stiles, then surely he’d have done the same for the mornings?”  
  


_'Won't know till I try_.’ Stiles decides as he stands outside the office, staring up at the tall structure. Sighing to himself, he adjusts the strap of his bag before walking in with the early morning crowd. Most of them look way too awake for 8:10 in the morning but there’s a few who, like Stiles, look as tired as they feel.   
  


He sighs into his travel cup, finishing the last dregs of his coffee right as the elevator dings open. As several people brush past him, Stiles checks his watch once more before shooting a quick look at the front doors. There’s a woman standing in the middle of the lobby checking her phone, another man digging through his bag with increasing fervor but no Derek.  
  


"In or out?" One of the people asks him. Stiles jumps like he’s been shot an hops in, feeling more disappointed than relieved. He pushes his way towards the back, wanting to curl up into a miserable ball in the corner. So Derek’s even changed his morning routine. Great. Now how is Stiles supposed to track the guy down and apologize to him?  
  


The doors are a few inches away from closing when suddenly, there’s an hand curling into one side of the door, forcing them to reverse their direction. Stiles and the others blink in surprise at the new comer but it’s only Stiles who feels a stupid rush of happy hope when he sees that it’s Derek.  
  


Derek looks… God he looks  _good_. The thought is sudden and unprompted but so true that it hurts. He’s wearing a simple white button down shirt, blue jeans and staring right at Stiles. His mouth goes dry when those hazel-green eyes lock on his and then turn stony. “I’ll take the stairs.” Derek mutters,  _loudly_.  
  


Stiles flinches so hard his back hits the wall.   
  


Fuck.  
  


This is worse than he’d thought.  
  


—

Scott, bless him, looks appalled enough for both of them. Which is excellent because Stiles is still in shock. “He said he’d take the stairs rather than get in the same elevator with you?” His best friend states, eyes nearly bugging out of his head.  
  


With a miserable nod, Stiles slumps further in his chair before despondently clicking the new email. He tries to read it over but the words are like water off a ducks back, they just… slide right over his brain without anything being absorbed.   
  


He’s known for a while now that Derek’s mad at him but… to  _this_ extent? Stiles just doesn’t know what to say. Stiles drops even lower on his chair until he’s in danger of just sliding down to the floor in a pathetic heap of miserable bones. “What do I do Scott? If he doesn’t want to see me then what do I do?”  
  


Scott doesn’t answer immediately, which makes Stiles despair even more. If the situation is so bad that Scott doesn’t have an answer for it then. Well. Stiles is doomed. And he’ll have no one to blame but his own stupid self.  
  


"Well. There’s the old fashioned way." Scott offers. Stiles rolls his head to the side, staring at his best friend who has temporarily taken up Casey’s seat. "You could write your feelings out."  
  


Frowning, Stiles pushes himself up. “You mean like a letter.”  
  


"Letter, email, post-it note." Scott shrugs. "Take your pick. I’d go with email or letter. They’re more personal."  
  


He’s willing to give anything a shot at this point. So Stiles tries his hand at writing his feelings out.  
  


The first draft is a mess that he trashes immediately, crumpling the paper into the tightest, smallest ball he can manage before violently throwing it into the trash can. The second draft is better but feels far too impersonal so that one goes into the trash as well, but with far more gentleness and a lesser amount of cursing.   
  


The third draft is the one Stiles cleans up and stares at long and hard, wondering if he ought to mail it or type up into an email. He winds up taking it home, folding and unfolding it so many times that the creased words begin to smudge.   
  


It takes him an extra three days before Stiles gathers up enough courage to type the letter out. Three days and a few sips of liquid courage. The latter, Stiles thinks the morning after, might have been a mistake because his carefully drafted letter winds up having several typos and a few drunken additions that make him bang his head against the desk a few times.  
  


The next day, Stiles is more jumpy than a scared cat on it’s first trip to the vet. He is twice as clumsy, bumbles over his words and keeps waiting for a reply from Derek. The day passes slowly and without any answer. As does the next day. And the day after.  
  


On the fifth day, Stiles’ nervous feelings have solidified into an angry feeling that’s got him pacing his tiny workspace. Casey eyes him warily, rolling away to the corner of her cubicle with a muttered, “Someone’s in a mood.”  
  


Glaring at his work mate, Stiles sweeps away to IT. He corners Danny by the vending machines and right off the bat asks, “Is there a way to check if someone’s read an email I’ve sent em?”  
  


Danny eyes him warily before feeding a dollar into the machine. “If it hasn’t bounced then you can assume that it’s been received.”  
  


Stiles flaps his hands so hard that he nearly pokes himself in the eye. “Not that! I need to make sure if they’re  _read_  my mail!”  
  


"Ask them?" Danny suggests dryly.  
  


The urge to roll his eyes cannot be stopped. “I  _can’t_. You think that if I could ask them I wouldn’t have by now?”  
  


"True." Danny bends down to pick up his drink. "Was it an official mail?"  
  


Stiles shakes his head. “Personal. It was kind of important.”  
  


"Hmm." He’s grateful that Danny doesn’t seem interested in knowing what kind of personal mail is so important to Stiles. "You could try sending it again but the recipient could just delete it without opening it. I think you need a better way to get your message across. Some way that guarantee’s that they’ll get it."  
  


Stiles hangs his head with a sigh, shoulders visibly drooping. “I was afraid you were gonna say that.”  
  


—

Boyd stares at the letter impassively, looking thoroughly unimpressed as he turns it over to stare at Derek’s name. “You want me to act like your delivery boy?” He asks Stiles.  
  


Stiles wrings his hands and gives the taller man a pleading look. “Just this once! I’d ask Erica or Isaac but they’ll read the letter and I  _really_ don’t want them butting their noses into this.” He hopes that the implied trust here will convince Boyd to do him this favor.  
  


Unfortunately it doesn’t look like it’s working. “I’ll give you 50 bucks?” He offers with a sigh.  
  


"Done." Boyd tucks the letter away into his blazer pocket. "I just need to hand it to Derek?"  
  


"And make to tell him that he’s got to read it." Stiles adds, feeling like this is it. There’s no way that Derek can avoid him now.  
  


Twenty minutes later, Stiles finds out how wrong he can be. “He did…  _what_?” He’s honestly not sure if his voice is trembling because of how hurt he feels or how  _angry_  he is.  
  


Boyd looks slightly apologetic as he repeats his words. “He put your letter through the shredder without reading it. The minute I told him it was from you, he…” The heavy shrug Boyd makes conveys it all. And only makes Stiles’ anger rise.  
  


How the hell can Erica think that he can make amends when Derek seems hell bent on thwarting him at every turn? Stiles so far beyond hurt and so deep into pissed off territory that he now wants to apologize just to get a one up on Derek!   
  


So he pulls the 50 out and pushes it towards Boyd, muttering a quick thanks before he schemes an idea which will  _force_  Derek not only into meeting him but also talking to him.  
  


"Greenburg!" Stiles calls out, standing up in his seat to take a look around the floor. "Anyone seen Greenburg?"  
  


—

Stiles gives Greenburg a quick slap on the shoulder before he slips into the closing elevator and glares triumphantly at Derek’s surprised face. “Can’t get away now!” He pants, hands out by his side to prevent Derek from either pushing his way out  _or_ reaching the panel to force the doors open.  
  


The other man glares at him before turning his angry look up at the display of numbers, watching the numbers crawl up until Stiles hits the emergency stop button. The elevator stops with a lurch, a shrill bell ringing in warning that forces Stiles’ to speak over it. “You can’t keep avoiding me Derek!”  
  


However, it looks like Derek’s determined to do that even now that Stiles is standing right in front of him. Stiles feels part of his rage trickle away with the sweat that’s rolling down his back. “I’m  _sorry,_  alright?” Stiles yells over the ringing, hands turning into fists by his side. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings but I didn’t plan on that! I didn’t plan on you finding out about the bet.”  
  


Derek’s still not looking at him. He’s not even moved a single muscle in response, continuing to stare at the number stuck between 12 and 13. Stiles is starting to feel like this is hopeless.  
  


What the  _hell_ is he supposed to say to get Derek to listen to him? “Derek.” Stiles pleads, taking a step towards the man. It  _stings_ that Derek takes a step back, stony eyes glaring at him for a moment before they look away again.  
  


"What do you want me to say?" He exclaims, wishing there was  _someone, anyone_ there with them to  _help_ him. Stiles’ can hear his mother’s voice whispering to him in his head, ‘If you apologize to someone sincerely, then they’ll understand and forgive you. But try not to get into a situation where you have to apologize, okay baby? Always play nice.’ God, she’d be so disappointed in him right now.  
  


His voice goes higher in desperation, hands waving as he asks, “What more do you want? Is an apology not enough? Do I have to-“  
  


There’s a crackling noise from the panel that makes them both turn. “Hey there folks.” says the man on the other end, “I see your elevator is stuck. Everything alright there?”

Derek steps forward immediately, elbowing Stiles away to push a button and reply, “Just fine. Accidentally pressed the alarm button. I’m fine.”  
  


Wait.  _What_?  
  


"I see. I’ll get it started again but you’re going to have to fill out an incident report."  
  


Derek leans down to answer, “Sure. Can you get me back to my floor now?”  
  


"Just a second."  
  


Stiles stares gobsmacked at the man,trying to burn a hole into his brain in the hopes of extracting an answer directly from the grey matter to the question ‘Did he just ignore me  _again_?’ He was having a hard time trying to fathom the  _depth_ of Derek’s anger towards him. Stiles  _gets_ that what he’s done is wrong in so many ways but… he’d never even  _imagined_ that it would cause  _this_ kind of reaction.  
  


"Derek…" Stiles tries again, reaching out to touch his arm.  
  


The second his fingertips touch Derek’s shoulder, the man jumps back like he’s been shocked. Stiles fingers curl around thin air, eyes widening in hurt. “You’re  _that_ mad at me?” He doesn’t mean to ask but the words escape his mouth anyways, tiny and filled with disbelief.   
  


Derek doesn’t say anything. He presses his lips together so hard they go pale. It’s still answer enough. A numb sensation creeps through his veins, turning his muscles so heavy it feels like a chore to stumble one step back and hit the wall.  
  


The elevator jerks into motion, creaking loudly before it resumes the smooth journey to the Finance Department. Stiles’ stares at the floor, the prickle of guilt and unhappiness making it impossible for him to even look at Derek’s  _shoes._ He doesn’t cry or come even close to it. But he does feel like throwing up when the elevator doors open and Derek walks past him like he’s  _nothing_.   
  


It gets harder and harder to breathe as  _that_ thought rattles around his head. “Stiles?” Erica’s voice asks him from far away. “What the hell happened? Did you manage to talk to him?”  
  


Eyes still downcast, Stiles swallows noisily. “He wouldn’t listen.” He sounds like a miserable frog that’s just be told that there’s no possibility of a happy end - sorry kid, there’s no magical kiss by a princess that’s gonna save you from being caught and turned into a fancy French dish. “He just… didn’t…”  
  


Stiles looks up into Erica’s surprised face, not seeing anything except red lips and worried eyes when he says, “I fucked it up good.”   
  


The doors close in response, cutting off Erica’s response before she can even form it. Stiles stares at his own twisted reflection as the elevator begins to descend. “I really fucked this up.” He repeats to himself, scrubbing a hand over his face.


End file.
